“Something of that sort,” admitted the stranger.
“Nevertheless, I wouldn’t consult with Everbody’s Friend over in the Owl Building.”
“Er—because—er—if I may speak plainly,” drawled Average Jones, “I wouldn’t risk a woman’s name with a gang of blackmailers.”
“You’ve got your nerve,” retorted the stranger. The keen eyes, flattening almost to slits, fixed on the impassive face of the other.
“Well, I’ll go you,” he decided, after a moment. His glance swept the range of vision and settled upon a rathskeller sign. “Come over there where we can talk.”
They crossed the grilling roadway, and, being wise in the heat, ordered “soft” drinks.
“Now,” said the stranger, “you’ve declared in on my game. Make good. What’s your interest?”
“None, personally. I like your looks, that’s all,” replied the other frankly. “And I don’t like to see you run into that spider’s web.”
“You know them?”
“Twice in the last year I’ve made ’em change their place of business.”